Post Prom Depression
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots based off of 2x20. Pairings will vary, but mainly Kurtofsky, Brittana, Faberry, and St. Berry. .:. It physically aches, because I'm already falling apart. When I left the gym that night, I went straight to my car.
1. Being Prom King

**A/N: You knew this was coming. After watching the Prom episode, how could I resist writing some Kurtofsky fanfiction pertaining to it? So here are some drabbles/oneshots.**

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><p>I wanted to dance with him. Oh, believe me, I <em>did.<em> And I would, too… if we were alone. If we weren't in a gym full of our peers, if his boyfriend wasn't standing nearby. Or maybe if I were braver, like him (to come back after having such a cruel joke played on him? To come back and accept the crown anyway, with dignity, with pride, even cracking a joke about it? That's true bravery, his Braveheart-like kilt somehow perfect, as if expecting that bravery), I could do it: come out, or dance with him, or be less miserable.

Because I am. I am miserable. I try to hide it, but in the week it's taken me to walk Kurt to nearly every class and then, finally, apologize to him like I wanted to (although I hadn't wanted to cry, I _don't _cry, but I fucking did and he saw it – saw my vulnerability – and he accepted it, accepted me, saying, "I know,_ I know,"_), he saw straight through me. He saw through my guise, he stopped hating me because he saw my pain, and he _understood._

And that right there was more than I could ever ask for.

But I couldn't do what he asked of me, what he keeps pressuring me to do: come Out. Be know as gay, like him. I just… I can't do that. Not now, not in high school. Things are on far too delicate a scale here. If I came out, things could fall apart.

But it hurts. It physically aches, because I'm already falling apart. When I left the gym that night, I went straight to my car. I couldn't face anyone. I hurt too much. And I almost expected Santana to come along – I was her ride, after all, and her date, even if it was a lie and I kept glancing at Kurt half the time and it burned me in a weird way to see him with his boyfriend – but she never did. She must have gotten a ride with someone else that night, even though I know she saw my car parked there. I didn't leave the parking lot until half of the other cars had already gone.

I was… in shock, crying, and thinking. I was shocked that I got Prom King – I thought for sure Hudson or Puckerman or both of them had far more votes than me, and maybe, in my paranoid mind, it's because they all _know _about how Kurt messes me up inside and they wanted to exploit it, wanted to force me Out, too. I don't know. But I do know how I was happy for a minute, thinking I would have the Perfect Evening, with all of my beardedness with Santana masked perfectly with our success, but no. No, Kurt was Prom Queen to my King, and it was wrong and right and awkward and oddly amazing and twisted and cruel and nearly laughable. Nearly.

It would be laughable, that is, if he and I were dates. And we were intentionally running together. And we wanted to win. And we did win because people liked us. Then it would be hilarious.

But not that night. Not that way.

For me, Prom turned into a disaster. I couldn't shake it, not all night. And thank God it was Saturday, because I didn't sleep and I needed to sleep, finally, when I crashed on Sunday. If I would have somehow needed to go somewhere the next day, I would have been a zombie.

But I still am a bit of a zombie. I can't get Kurt out of my head, not about he way he looked or what he said or how he acted, not from prom and not from that day in the hallway when I lost it. All I can think about is how he felt and smelled standing next to me, walking with me with books in his hand, looking me in the eyes and expecting me to dance with him. He… expected it. He was waiting for me to do it, to dance with him – what, proudly? – and show that I was as unafraid as I come off to be, that I was as unblemished by us as he was.

But I chickened out. I couldn't do it. I wanted to, so badly, but I couldn't.

So I left, cried in my car, and now, I'm left with _two _mementos taunting and haunting me of my failures: his wedding cake topper to represent the bullying I regret, and my crown that represents the set that he completes.

It makes something weird and heavy contort in my chest, as if my heart were made of thick, weighted lead wire and is twisted and snapping painfully between my lungs.

I wish it would all go away. My sexuality (because I can't deny it now, not when everything points to it and I'm left realizing for _sure _that I _am _gay), my mistakes, my… _crush _(I don't want to call it that, I'm _afraid _to, but I know that's what I feel, what it must be), and everything else that makes up my life right now.

Just… if it could vanish, then maybe, _maybe _I might be happy, and not feel… well, feel like _shit._


	2. Facing Facts

When Dave comes home that evening, Paul Karofsky raises an eyebrow and glances up from the book in his hands to start over at his son walking through the front door. "You're home earlier than I thought. Doesn't Prom end at midnight?"

"Yeah, but I left. It was getting boring," Dave lies, because it wasn't boring at all; it was the opposite: completely and utterly dramatic.

"Really? What about your date? Did Santana want to leave, too?" Paul asks, and he is just making conversation, he's genuinely curious (as a father naturally would be about his son's Prom), but the words sting nonetheless.

Dave winces. "I… No. She wanted to stay, so I let her catch a ride with one of her friends. She, um. She didn't mind," he says, which is nearly what happened. He actually doesn't know how Santana feels or what she knows, but he assumes that she might understand. Like him, things hadn't gone according to plan for her tonight, so perhaps she might be empathetic about his act of leaving her at the Prom.

"Oh, all right," his father nods, "As long as she's safe; it's dangerous on Prom night, you know. But did you at least have fun before it got boring?" he wonders, because how could Prom get boring? Tiring, maybe, if you like to dance too much, but _boring?_

"Oh, uh, yeah. Plenty of fun. Santana and I danced a lot. We talked with a few people, and… and I won Prom King," Dave remarks, because the crown isn't on his head. It's clutched in his hand low at his side, hidden by the open, dangling flap of his jacket draped over his arm.

"What? That's fantastic! I'm so happy for you, son! And I bet Santana was ecstatic; it always means more to the girl than the guy," his father chuckles, standing up and setting his book aside. He places his reading glasses next to it. "So, tell me all about it."

Dave makes a face. "Actually, Dad, I'd rather go to bed. I'm, uh, really tired. But, um… just so you know… it wasn't Santana who won Prom Queen." And he can't lie, can he? He has to let his father know before someone else tells him.

His father smiles. "My son, The Stud. So which girl did you get to dance with, then?"

Dave looks away. "I didn't. Kurt Hummel won as some fucking sick joke. Whosever idea it was to do that to him… handwrite his name on the ballot, gather together and choose to do it enough so he'd win… it's just wrong. I did stuff to him that wasn't great, Dad, but that… that was just… cruel."

Paul Karofsky is instantly changed. His demeanor shifts from open, happy, and curious, to angered, confused, and disgusted. "Are you _kidding _me?" he says lowly, "That… Why didn't anyone do anything about it? The principal, surely –"

"Figgins looked confused, Dad, but he didn't name the runner-up instead or anything. He let the people decide, and they chose Kurt," Dave grumbles, coming to sit down on the couch. He undoes his tie and tosses it onto the coffee table. "And I wouldn't dance with him, of course. I mean, why would I? That'd just be weird. But the fact that he took the crown anyway is… gutsy. I know I could have never done it if I were in his position."\

Paul nods firmly. "The boy is respectably strong for someone his age. But still, David, why didn't _you _do something about it? You're in that anti-bullying program –"

"It wasn't my place since it wasn't physical or something that could be easily taken back," Dave mumbles, because he does feel a tad ashamed for nearly going along with it, acting like it was normal and fine and not the awful prank that it was. "Besides, he… he seemed like he could take it. I mean, he left when it was first announced – he might've been crying, I dunno – but he came back. He even said something like 'eat your heart out' about some actress or something, I dunno. It's just… he didn't seem like he needed my help."

"I suppose I can see that. But still, I bet Mr. Hum– Burt will be furious. It's precisely that sort of pain he tried to avoid when he was re-enrolling Kurt back into McKinley, I'm sure," Paul remarks, because in his mind, that's the sort of thing he would feel it if were his son. He would feel protective in every definition of the term "papa bear," and he would call the school immediately and make complaints, or simply yank his son out and homeschool him if he had to, because that sort of bullying is… _intense._ Worse than locker shoves and slushies like his own son did, in Paul's opinion.

"Yeah." Dave feigns a yawn. "I'm heading to bed. I'll talk to you more in the morning, Dad," Dave murmurs, and makes his way upstairs, unbuttoning his vest and shirt to reveal the wifebeater tank top underneath.

"Okay, David," Paul says, and he can sense with that fatherly intuition that more went on than his son revealed, despite how much he already told. "Goodnight. I love you," he adds, because somehow, he knows it must be said.

Dave pauses at the base of the stairs, his back turned, facial expression hidden, but his tone saying it all. "…I love you, too, Dad. G'night." His voice is tight at the end, and yes, Paul knows, there is something more there. But he won't pry; he'll let his son tell him when he's ready.


	3. With Her

She didn't win.

She can't believe that she didn't win.

Her date won, but she _didn't? _How does that even work? And why, _why _of all people, did Kurt Hummel have to win? That's horrible, and dirty, and rotten, and _low, _and she knows it. Santana can be one icy queen bitch who plays dirty, but even _she _wouldn't do something like that to somebody.

But still. _Still. _Did they really all hate her and Kurt so much that they would humiliate him and completely denounce her, letting _her_ _date _get crowned and not herself?

Santana nearly wants to scream.

So she cries instead.

"Come on, Santana… it's okay. It's just a stupid crown; you can buy one at the party store. I know; I have three. Well, _four_, but Lord Tubbington thought he could fit inside one. Silly boy; cats can't wear crowns."

But at least _she _is here. _She _is the reason why Santana even bothered to do all this, and although Santana gained a friend in the process – Dave is actually kind of fun, and they were having a surprisingly good, empathetic time (she caught him more than once glancing at Kurt and what's-his-face-with-the-triangle-eyebrows, and he's caught her more than once looking at _her_) up until now – but it isn't enough. She had wanted to _win. _Because winning meant getting _her, _since _she _came dateless.

Santana wills a smile, but it soon fades. "I bet they could smell the lesbian on me and figured I was 'one of the boys.' They might as well have elected me Prom King to mirror Kurt's. I mean, do I smell like a golf course or something?"

"What? No, of course not. Santana, I don't think that's what's going on. You just… you need to let people see all of the awesome that you are. You need to believe in them, and yourself, 'cause… _I _believe in Santana," _she _says softly, stepping closer and touching the Latina girl.

And Santana caves. She caves in, because this is all she wanted out of this. She just wanted _her. _

She only ever wants _her. _

"Thank you,_ Brittany_," Santana sniffs, sliding into the blonde's arms easily. They fit perfectly together, their bodies aligning, always, and Brittany always smells so lovely, sweet and fruity, like those giant rainbow or unicorn-horn-shaped (Brittany's favorite) lollipops. And she's always so warm, perfect for Santana's body, because Santana always feels so cold. On the inside, mostly, where all her pain and love mixes together.

"Let's get back in there," the blond suggests with as mild smile on her lips, despite her usual nearly monotone voice. "People are going to miss us. And I want to check on poor Kurt."

Yes, Kurt. He will need special support after this, and even if they aren't completely friends, Santana still wants to be there for him after something like _that. _

She holds onto Brittany's arm and lets the dancer lead them out of the classroom, back into the main gym. And really, just being with her is all Santana was hoping for when it came to prom. And right now, even though it looks like Brittany might forgive Artie and be with him again, Santana can at least have this moment with Brittany alone as a cherished memory to add to her mental scrapbook.


	4. May I Have This Dance?

I hadn't expected him to do it, but here he is. Rachel told me that he said no when only she asked him to prom, but that he said yes when I was involved. She also said that he was staring at me over dinner, and that those moments he and I were in sync were "finally recognized without Glee Club as a distraction," or something.

But I wasn't sure if I believed her. Maybe I didn't want to, because I keep telling myself over and over that I don't need a man.

But… Sam. I never thought about him much, not deeply anyway, and yet, as soon as he asks me to dance, I can't say no. And when I dance with him, I feel like I can be myself, and he can be himself, and neither of us will mind.

I don't want to say that I'm suddenly crushing on him or anything, but I do think that he and I could be a possibility. We're already somewhat friends – because everyone is "somewhat friends" in New Directions – and after tonight, I have a feeling we will be even closer. And who knows? Maybe Sammy and I can be something. I wouldn't mind seeing that happen. He's sweet and hasn't been treated right, and lately, he's going through some tough stuff.

So if he wants me, or needs me, I want to be here. Because after fulfilling my Cinderella dream by just asking me to dance and telling me that I look beautiful… I want to make a dream of his come true, too. It's the least I can do, and I'm not normally a sentimental, mushy person, but for Sam, I could do it just once.


	5. Never Thought It Would Be You

Quinn expected no less from Rachel Berry to take a slap to the face and turn it into some sort of dramatic teenage milestone. She simply inspects her face, sees no damage, and instead turns to help Quinn with whatever she's feeling.

She fixes Quinn's makeup, but not after a touch of the hand, ever so subtly. And Quinn did it on purpose, she honestly did, and she didn't miss how Rachel's fingers closed afterward, as if memorizing the touch in the back of her mind.

But they both love the same boy, don't they? _Don't they? _

Since when have they been so in-tune to each other, so understanding of one another? Was their rivalry sort of relationship all along merely a disguise?

Quinn wonders, she honestly does, as she steps out of the bathroom, backs up Kurt, watches as Rachel does the same, and finally, takes her picture alone without a care. She feels… somehow freer, without Finn, at this dance. Somehow lighter, after talking to Rachel and bearing her soul to her.

At the end of the event, Rachel comes up to her and touches her wrist corsage. "It's beautiful. Just what I envisioned."

"Sorry?" Quinn frowns, cocking her head a bit, her eyes questioning.

Rachel looks up as the two of them begin stepping out of the gym, heading for their cars. "It's just… it's what I pictured in my head when I told Finn what to get you. He wasn't sure, and since he and I are still somewhat friends, I gave him a little advice. Nothing much, I just told him to pick out a ribbon that would match your eyes, not your dress, and to get you a simple white flower like that one, since girls like you don't want distractions from your face," she shrugs, like it means nothing.

But suddenly, Quinn realizes, this means everything. Rachel knows precisely what sort of flower order she would want. How did she know that? It seems… personal, _intimate;_ something the boyfriend should know, not the girl who dated him before. Not the girl who is too empathetic for her own good, who tries too hard and usually fails, not the girl who's suddenly looking less dorky and actually really beautiful right now, not the girl who's taking all of Quinn's attention at the moment. Because that girl shouldn't be doing that, shouldn't _be _that to Quinn, and it's… _displacing. _

"Well, thank you, I guess," Quinn murmurs, because now it feels like Rachel bought her this corsage instead of Finn. "I'll… see you at school on Monday?"

"Yeah. Are you ready for Nationals?" Rachel returns with a bright smile.

Quinn blinks. "Yeah, I am, actually. It's going to be amazing."

_Like you,_ she nearly adds, because tonight, Rachel didn't do anything wrong, not really. She didn't deserve that slap, and Quinn was sorry the second she did it, an instant sort of regret. So she apologized, but it doesn't feel complete. Not after how Quinn has always treated the poor brunette.

Still, they wave goodbye, as if nothing rough had even happened in that bathroom, and Quinn feels at least a little bit better about tonight.


	6. Missed

The second she hears his voice, she knows it's him.

She whirls around, stunned, and watches Jesse St. James, still the same as ever, pace down the auditorium steps, singing Adele's song right along with her.

As they sing, she doesn't want to admit how much she missed him; his voice, his scent, his clothing, his build, his smile, his eyes. She doesn't want to admit it, so she smiles a little to herself before turning serious again, not letting him see.

She is cold and calculated with him, because Finn was her first real crush, but Jesse was her first real love. And seeing him again, hearing him speak to her, woo her with words and offer a proposition for Prom… how can she refuse? She _knew _he hadn't meant the egg thing, not with his heart anyway, and that it was all competition. She _knew _he wouldn't do that to her, not justifiably.

And so now, now that he's here again… She says yes. She includes him into the group of herself, Mercedes, and Sam, and prays for the best. Because she missed him, and she knows she can be herself and have fun with him, and she knows that it will be just as easy to slip into as the last time.


	7. Truthfully, Honestly

"What's wrong?"

Why are you asking me that? Since when have I ever deserved anything from you, anything close to those simple words? You honestly don't know how much you affect me, Kurt. I'm all messed up because of you, but I don't blame you for it like I used to.

Because you…

You understand me more than I thought. You're looking at me with _concern _– imagine that, the bullied worried about the bully – and you're asking me as simply as if we were friends, 'What's wrong?' and indirectly, 'Can I help?' because you see my pain.

Ha, imagine that, too: you can see through me as if I were made of glass. And maybe I am. Because I'm crying. Shit, I'm fucking _crying. _In the middle of the _hallway. _People might see, might hear us, but… but all I see is you. You're the only thing here right now.

God, I'm so…

"I'm so… I'm so fucking _sorry,_ Kurt," and I hate how my voice betrays me, breaking when I say your name, because you affect me more than you will ever know. All I want is your forgiveness, your approval, your acceptance. I never thought I did, and I never did before, but now I do. Now, it's all I can think about every time my stomach churns sickeningly and my mouth tastes bitter with tears as I look at that damn stolen cake topper, still in my room, hidden away from my dad's eyes. "I'm so sorry about what I did to you."

Because I was the worst. I hurt you because I was afraid of how you affected me. And, truthfully, I was miserable just like you said, and I _still _am, and I _do _torture myself – even now, I'm shoving my self up against the lockers like I used to do to you, because I deserve it, and I know it – and how can you see all that? How can you –?

"I know. I _know," _you say, first firmly, and then softly, leaning forward a little.

And my breath catches in my throat as relief spreads through me, a small smile on the corners of my lips.

You… **know.**

_How can you __**know**__?_ I had been about to think, and there you go confirming it. Further still, you're… assuring me. You're letting me know that you don't hate me, that you are afraid of me, that you know my pain, my regret, and you accept it.

And it's all I wanted.

I snap back to myself when a girl passes by. I clear my throat, blink away my tears, and mutter, "Cool." And I want to say more, and I can see how you react to my shift in demeanor, but you have to remember, we're still at school. I have to keep up appearances. I have to remember that. "Thanks."

(I mean that 'thank you' with all of my heart, Kurt. I hope you _know _that, too.)

I ask for you to wait for me, but there is a double-meaning there. Yes, I'm asking you to wait inside the classroom where no one can touch you (I have to protect you; I need to, now, as both my duty from Santana and my repentance to you personally), but that isn't all of it.

I'm also asking you, truly pleading you, to wait for me. I need time, Kurt. I can't come Out like you, not yet. I can't.

But I want to.

(For you. For your sake. To shut you up about it, to ease my guilt, to end my suffering… I don't know which. Maybe a bit of all of it. Just… anything, _anything, _because, truthfully, peer pressure gets to me, but _you, _Kurt, affect me the most.)


	8. Outrage

**A/N: This one is meant to parallel chapter 2, "Facing Facts," with Paul and Dave.**

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><p>Kurt wasn't sure how he expected his father to react – he knew not in the "I told you soI warned you" fashion, surely – but he isn't sure that he expected _this._

Kurt, of course, told his father about the Prom incident. How could he not? His father had every right to know that his child won Prom Queen. It's beyond insulting (because "insulting" would be putting it in the mildest of terms), however, that the Queen has a _penis._

"How could they let this happen? Write-in candidates shouldn't be permitted, not when things like this could happen! I can't believe your principal did that to you, read off your name like that. When they were tallying the votes, didn't they think it suspicious? This is outrageous! I won't stand for this, Kurt. I won't stand for this kind of humiliation. You don't deserve it, not in the least. I'm going to talk to someone about this; I will march to that school myself and –"

"Dad, please…" Kurt tries softly, cutting off his father's boisterous rage. "It's over and done with. I handled it. I showed them up, proved to them that they can't hurt me, that they only fueled me, that they will never be able to touch me again. And besides, won't I be a school legend, now? The fist male Prom Queen? I think it's momentous," he says, and it's only a slight lie. Part of him is glad that it's over, but he knows the truth: people are going to look at him odder than usual come Monday, and nothing will be the same on a whole new level. But that doesn't mean he won't play it off as something prideful instead of hurtful (which it is. Kurt's stomach is still sick from it, and it's past midnight, now).

"It's just so wrong, Kurt. You shouldn't be treated that way. I've… I've never even heard of anything like this _happening _before. Worse things I've heard f, sure, but… this is a different playing field. A new ballpark of unspoken cruelty."

"It was just a prank, Dad," Kurt mumbles, his heart only a foot into the statement. "Please don't blow this out of proportion. If more stuff comes up, then you can throw all the fits you want at the school. But if things return to normal by Monday like they did at the end of the dance, then I think I'll be just fine."

"It wasn't that Karofsky boy, was it? Was he behind all of this? You said he won Prom King," Burt accuses, instantly jumping to any conclusion that might make sense.

Kurt shakes his head. "No. He had no idea; he was just as shocked as I was. And besides, I told you: he apologized sincerely to em this week." He left out how, because Kurt still can't believe himself that _David Karofsky _cried in front of him, so openly, like he didn't mind Kurt seeing him vulnerable. Clearing his throat and squaring his jaw, Kurt goes on, "Instead, it was some of the football jocks on Finn's team and the hockey jocks from Dave's old team who came up with the idea and posted it all over people's Facebooks via private message. That's how they came up with the plan and spread it around enough so it would work. Most people check their Facebooks before Prom, and then during it, on their phones. That's how so many people decided it would be 'funny' to have the gay kid be Queen. But it's childish and below me, and that's why I'm not as upset as you are."

Again, another lie. He cried. He cried right there in the hallway, like the girl they are proclaiming him to be. It's demeaning and nearly backstabbing, but he pulled through it. And right now, dealing with it with his father, Kurt is going to _continue _to pull through.

Burt sighs through his nose, clearly angered and still in attack mode, but he slowly begins to calm. "Sometimes I really hate technology and wireless connections, son. They encourage sick things like this."

Kurt sighs as well. "I know," he laments, standing up from the couch and taking off his kilt and boots, his jacket already on a chair nearby (and neatly folded). "But it's the way the world works nowadays. The Internet permits all sorts of opportunities, some more innocent than others. It's not something someone can control. So I've learned to swallow it down and move past it."

Burt's smoky green eyes melt from all of their anger. He stands and his son automatically turns toward him. He brings his boy in for a much-needed hug; he can see in Kurt's telling eyes how strongly this actually affects him. "You're always so strong, Kurt. If there is ever somebody who says you aren't tough, then they don't know you. Don't let being deemed a female monarch deter from the fact that you're more man than they will ever be, any of them."

"Th-thanks, Dad," Kurt whispers, voice cracking with tears as soon as his opens his mouth. He clings to his father's broad shoulders for a moment, absorbing the comfort there. He exhales shakily, trying to regain some of his composure, because he's already cried enough for one night. "I'm… I'm going to go to bed, now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, son."


	9. What If He Had?

What if he had danced with Kurt? Dave wonders to himself as he sits out in the hallway (he can't leave Santana stranded without a ride, he knows, and he definitely doesn't want to lose his "beard," not now, when he needs her even more, because who knows if she would dump him or not for ditching her). He breathes in shallowly, trying to will himself not to cry, like he had been so close to doing when he was out on that dance floor.

_I can't._

Two words that speak novels of phrases, meanings, and appear in countless scenarios. But this time, in this scenario, it means exactly what it states: Dave _can't. _He simply _cannot. _There is no double-meaning, no hidden phrase, no other way of putting it. He was expressing precisely what he meant in those two words: he can't come Out tonight, not here, not now, not with so many people watching, not after what they just did to Kurt through secret ballot, not when all he wants to do is sweep Kurt off his feet and dance with him, Kurt's boyfriend be damned.

That's all he meant. He just… _can't._

Dave heaves a sigh, chest quaking with nerves and doubts and fears and insecurities. He feels shame, regret, uncertainty. There was so much that could have happened in that moment.

So what if, he wonders. What if he had gone through with it?

He wouldn't have needed to say anything. The act of dancing with Kurt would have spoken volumes. And he wonders with just a fraction of his thought if he ran away because he wasn't expected to dance with his "queen," or if he ran away because he knew he _was _expected to, and couldn't own up to it. Because either people caught on, and that's why Dave won, or… or he really is popular enough to win, and that's another reason why there's all the more pressure _not _to come Out.

It's all so very topsy-turvy and confusing and beyond him. Dave understand Calculus (it's an advanced placement class, because even some seniors are only taking Pre-Calc), because numbers and cold, hard facts make sense. But things like this? They might as well be a foreign language with how much Dave grasps them mentally.

Suddenly, there are footsteps coming from the corner, from the gym. And then the sound of the gym door clicking shut. The steps tap quietly closer, and suddenly, there's someone beside him.

"Hey, Dave," Santana says softly, and she's looking at him with that rare apprehension, rare _sympathy,_ that she has at times for people closest to her or just people like Dave who relate to her and are too similar to her for her to stand to the point where she had that rare tenderness engulfing her eyes. "So I take it you're ready to get the Hell outta here?"

Dave cracks a smile like he sometimes does with this girl. "Yeah, I'd say that's about right," he says around a sniff to help clear any tears.

Santana reaches over and removes the handkerchief from his pocket below his boutonniere. Her own corsage is missing, and even though this is a rental, it doesn't hurt to use it a little. She dabs his face of sweat and the tears he missed, and offers that same light smile he had seconds ago.

"You're getting there. I am, too; slowly. We need to take our time, though. This is McKinley; no one will ever accept us, but we can at least try to get there," She murmurs, her tone surprisingly perceptual. She stands, and offers her hand. Dave takes it, and he stands as well, but he doesn't let go of her hand for a second.

"So… are we still…?" he wonders, because he wants to make sure that nothing has changed. Not the Bully Whips, not their bearding, not anything. He liked things the way they are right now, despite this upset during Prom.

"Yeah, of course we are. I still need ya, ya big lug. Now c'mere and be a good fake boyfriend and give me a hug," Santana says offhandedly, acting like it's still all for show, but they're alone, so Dave knows better.

When her much smaller body presses up against his, he sinks into her. He leans down and turns his face into her hair, smelling hairspray. He clings to her shoulders and the middle of her back, and it just feels so good to be with somebody right now, even if it isn't the person he wants or in the way he wants it.

"It's okay, Muscles. Things didn't go too smooth for me, either. But we're tough, right? We're fucking badasses. We can handle this. But right now, it's time to go. I'm sick of this stupid Prom."

Dave nods, and as they walk down the empty, dim halls, he removes his crown and places it on his girlfriend's head. "I wish you would have won instead of Kurt. So you deserve this. Plus… I really don't want it."

And she knows why, to both statements. So she nods, accepting the cheap, plastic, golden item on her head. It's a little big on her, so it only stays in place thanks to the wavy curls in her hair. "This night was a bust."

"For the most part, yeah," Dave agrees. "But not totally."

She considers this for a second. "But you're right, it wasn't a _total _bust. Did I tell you that I got to talk to Brittany? She told me that she believed in me." Her voice drops. "I wanted to kiss her so badly for saying that, especially right when I needed to hear it." And Santana is about to cry, so David loops his arm around her waist for comfort. She walks closer to him, because while they sometimes bicker and tease, they actually work as a couple, in their own way.

"I nearly danced with him, Santana. I was so close to going along with that he whispered to me when we were walking out to the dance floor. He said that this would be a good moment to come out. But I couldn't do it. I _can't _do it."

Santana deflates. Making an uncomfortable, regretting face, she informs him, "I said the same thing to Brittany last week when I couldn't do her Fondue for Two show with her and come out over the Internet, because I was afraid someone from school seeing it."

"I get that," David murmurs. They're nearly back to their car, now; they've at least reached the parking lot. "I probably would have done the same thing. I don't know when I'll stop running away, but I think I'll keep running until I think it's safe. But I don't want to be what you called me."

"A late-in-life gay?" she clarifies. She nods once. "I bet not. Because even if you bullied people, you aren't that much of a douchebag. You wouldn't do that to some poor woman."

"No, I wouldn't," Dave answers quietly. "I feel bad enough using you as a cover, even if it was your idea. I mean, why do you think I never had a girlfriend before? I was too chicken-shit to admit I was gay – evem to myself – but that doesn't mean I didn't, y'know, have an _idea_ about what felt right and what didn't. And using a girl as my girlfriend just to say that I had one didn't feel right."

Santana laughs ironically, moving in to give him a tap on the arm with her fist. "You're such a big softie inside, David. Makes me wonder how you're the jock that you are."

Dave makes a scoffing snorting sound, but he actually doesn't mind being soft inside. Playing tough is fun, though. But being nice gets him places, he's learned.

"What if I had danced with him, though, Santana?" he mutters softly once they're in the car and heading out of the school parking lot. "Do you think… I dunno, not that the school would be good about it because they would actually hate me, but… do you think he would've been proud of me?"

Santana stares at him for a long moment before looking away, eyes searching the zooming scenery outside her passenger-side window. "I know he would have been proud of you, Muscles. Hell, I wouldda been proud of you, too. And then, maybe, I would have come out soon afterward. But it wasn't meant to be tonight, okay? So don't stress about it. We'll take out sweet time, 'cause we're not like Kurt and Mr. Perfect Hair."

"Brittany would be proud of you, too, if we had done it," Dave remarks thickly. He blinks and keeps his eyes on the road as he drives Santana home.

He can hear her choking on what would be a sob if she let it escape. But for once, Santana is holding back her tears. "Ye-yeah, I know."


	10. Similar

"I can't."

The second he said those words, I understood. I turned and watched him go, and then I looked out at the crowd, my expression a lost one.

_"I can't" _are the same words I said to Mercedes last year when I wasn't ready to come out yet. It's almost _scary _how similar we were during those two separate times. I... I see, now, that I was pressuring him too much. I keep thinking that he'll be relieved, feel happier, if he just stopped fighting himself and accepted what I fully accepted about myself quite some time ago.

But I forget that Dave isn't like me, doesn't have the friends I have, or the invisibility (in a matter of speaking), or the support. I'm sure his father would support him - he seemed nice enough the two times I met him in the principal's office - but beyond that, he is in no where near the same boat as I am.

I think I know his pain because I lived it last year, but it was short-lived. David's pain... it goes so much deeper, with so many more layers that coming out wouldn't mend, and might only make worse. It would be like tearing off someone's skin; in this case, his built identity, the one he uses around others.

Who am I to keep trying to take that away from him?

And yet... I think what I really wanted was some sort of... _resolve._ Something to... _complete_ whatever it is we were sharing this week when he was walking me to nearly every class he could, and when we were talking, and when he broke down _right in front of me _and **apologized** in a way I never thought he would. Generally, he surprised me that day by just doing everything he did in that short moment.

And now, again, in _that _short moment - _"I can't,"_ - he told me with just his face and tone alone far more than I ever expected to know.

It's weird, because when it comes to Dave, I have to use every last skill and intuition I possess in order to read him, his mask is _that _firmly set in place, _that _masterfully crafted. And it's even weirder that I want to _continue _figuring him out.

Because my former bully or not, Dave Karofsky is a human being, and he's suffering, and I have a damned tender heart that feels the need to help whomever I can, be it my dad finding love, Sam needing clothes, or anything else _for _anyone else.


End file.
